


like lifting stars

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: there will be music despite everything (sw/mcu au) [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, POV Darcy Lewis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8689639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: She imagines it--waking up alone, scared, disoriented, not knowing who or where she is, terrified at every little thing. She imagines never knowing for sure. “Yeah, real lucky,” she echoes.

  “Wish I felt that way,” says Foster.
or: Darcy Lewis, intern to Anakin Skywalker, not that either of them know that last part, and the time before they hit a man with their van.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gunmetal_Crown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gunmetal_Crown/gifts), [springsoldier (ladydaredevil)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydaredevil/gifts).



> title from Leah Umansky's "[Follow](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/56680)".
> 
> this came about bc of Natalie Portman's role as Jane Foster, which got me thinking about if Padme and Jane were the same person, which then got me thinking about what would happen if it was Anakin in her place. assume that much of the dead Star Wars cast has somehow been transplanted into MCU after death, though it takes Obi-wan a little while longer thanks Force ghost bullshit.

The first time Darcy ever sees Anakin Skywalker, he doesn’t actually remember _being_ Anakin Skywalker, so she’s less worried about being choked to death and more worried about her job applications.

Well. Her _hypothetical_ job applications, which are growing more and more hypothetical by the second.

What kind of self-respecting poli-sci major takes an internship with an _astrophysicist_ , anyway?

A desperate self-respecting poli-sci major, if she’s being completely honest with herself. Man, she hates the system. Man, she hates her alarm clock. _Man,_ she hates her scatterbrained butt for forgetting the date to her first choice.

Still, she supposes it could be worse. At least she’s not Kirsten McDuffie, currently working as glorified errand girl at some tiny-ass publisher. At least she’s not Roz Solomon, fuck only knows where she’s gone to.

She steps through the door and blinks at the empty chairs, and the man napping at the table.

She knocks on the door and says, “Uh, hello? Is--” She stops, steps back out to squint at the handwritten sign on the doors, then steps back in to continue, very loudly, “Is, uh, ‘Dr. John Foster’ here?”

The guy startles awake, and Darcy watches him peel a paper off his face and blink, surprised, at her.

“Oh,” he says. “Uh. Yeah, that’s--that’s me, I’m still--I don’t _officially_ have my doctorate yet, there’s kind of a wait list and they’re still deliberating on my thesis, but the Dean said I could hire people anyway while I wait.” He pauses, glances around the empty room and mutters, “Sure would help, though.”

On the bright side, Darcy supposes, at least she doesn’t have competition. She makes a beeline straight for the chair across from Foster, and sits down and flashes him her best smile.

“You’ve got something stuck in your teeth,” says Foster.

Darcy’s smile freezes, and she curses as she yanks out the piece of broccoli stuck in between her teeth. “ _Dammit,_ ” she says.

“So, uh,” says Foster, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, the fluorescent light glinting off his medical bracelet and the bit of metal peeking out from underneath his gloved hand, “you’re--Darcy Lewis, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” says Darcy.

“I’m curious,” says Foster, leaning forward, “why does a political science major want to apply to be an intern under an astrophysicist? I thought you’d be going for Stern, last I checked he was recruiting interns in the other building.”

“Stern’s a Republican,” says Darcy, darkly. Years from now, she’ll look back on that moment and cackle madly at the giant tentacled bullet she managed to dodge. “And anyway, I am--very interested in the stars! Very, very interested. Ursa Minor and Ursa Major and, uh--”

“I’m not your first choice, am I,” says Foster with a huff, shaking his head.

“No,” says Darcy, giving up.

“Eh, that’s fine,” says Foster, lightly. “I can show you on the job. Can you design a website?”

“Pft, _duh_ ,” says Darcy. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Can you make a cup of coffee?”

Darcy shrugs. “The _meanest_ ,” she says.

“Can you name all the alien races in _Star Trek_?”

“Alphabetically or by order of appearance?” Darcy shoots back, grinning.

Foster huffs out a laugh, says, “Yeah, you’re hired.”

Darcy blinks at him. “That’s it?”

“Well,” he says, waving a hand at the very thin tray of applications beside him, “you’re the only applicant. I’m kinda obligated to hire you, even if you couldn’t design a website worth a shit.”

“Gee,” Darcy says, sardonic, staring at the one application on the tray and her grinning face attached to it, “thanks.”

Wow, her new boss is an _asshole._

\--

She sees him again at the airport, to begin her summer internship with him in, of all places, Puente Antiguo, New Mexico. She’s packed a lot of stuff: her clothes, her books, her iPod, lots of things that’ll keep her sane out in New _fucking_ Mexico, land of sand and more sand.

In contrast, Foster’s just packed two suitcases, but there’s a murderous look on his face as he’s arguing with the guard that slows Darcy down when she gets closer.

“--is _that_ dangerous equipment?” he’s half-yelling. “I _repaired it_ , I can guarantee you that it’s not dangerous if you can _stop shaking it_!”

“It’s just procedure, sir,” says the guard, face impressively impassive, a nondescript package in his hands. “You’ll have your package back soon enough, sir.”

“Yeah, in _pieces_ \--”

“Dr. Foster!” Darcy calls, getting both men’s attention as she power-walks her way over, hauling her suitcases along. Man, her arms are getting tired. “Hey, man, what’s going on here?”

“This asshole,” Foster snaps, “is going to damage _highly sensitive equipment_ \--if you touch that and it _breaks_ \--”

“We just need to make sure it’s not dangerous, sir,” says the guard.

“Let the nice man do his job, Doc,” says Darcy, patting him on the shoulder. “If it breaks you can sue.”

\--

The highly sensitive equipment is not, in fact, broken. Darcy should know, because Foster looked it over twice when they landed before making _her_ look it over.

“This is a coffeemaker,” she says, as they’re driving a rickety old van away from the airport. There’s a surprising amount of boxes in the back, tied securely down with ropes and duct tape and covered with clothes. She wonders how long Foster’s been planning this trip out, if he’d had all this shipped over before his flight. “You nearly punched a guy in the face over a _coffeemaker_?”

“It’s _my_ coffeemaker and it took me three years to get it to make coffee exactly the way I like it,” says Foster, as stubborn as Darcy’s grandfather Rick. “If it had been damaged in any way, I’d be in deep shit.”

“You must be really picky about your coffee,” says Darcy, gently sliding the coffeemaker back into its box.

“You have no idea,” says Foster. “And, oh, yeah, don’t touch my camera. That took me _four_ years to get it to work exactly how I want it, and three months to desert-proof it.”

Darcy snorts out a laugh, and looks out the window. “You allergic to anything?” she asks him, as the small town around the airport melts away into the New Mexico desert around them. “Like, uh, sand?”

“Sand sucks,” says Foster, “but I’m here anyway, aren’t I?” His gaze cuts away from the road for a moment to her, and he says, “This about my bracelet?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Darcy, clutching the coffeemaker close.

“Easy,” says Foster, looking at the road again. “I have post-traumatic stress disorder and total retrograde amnesia. Least that’s what the doctor said when I asked.”

Darcy eyes his gloved hand, the black and gold metal peeking out from under the leather glove. “So you don’t remember anything _and_ you still have PTSD?” she asks.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Foster says. “I never know what’s going to set me off. Fourth of July’s a given, and I get tetchy around fire. Some Halloween costume, once, and this red fluorescent light for another.” He sighs, turns right at a fork in the road down to Puente Antiguo. “Before you ask, no, they’re not actually connected. At least as far as I could tell.”

“What, really?” says Darcy, straightening up in her seat.

“Apparently, I was hit by a car, and when my head hit the pavement the part of my brain that stored long-term memories was hit the hardest,” says Foster, calmly driving past a red light. “I’m told I’m lucky I just can’t remember anything about me and anything before 2001, apparently it could’ve been so much worse.”

Darcy huffs out a breath, leans her head back against the headrest and looks up at the sky, slowly beginning to darken. She imagines it--waking up alone, scared, disoriented, not knowing who or where she is, terrified at every little thing. She imagines never knowing for sure.

“Yeah, real lucky,” she echoes.

“Wish I felt that way,” says Foster. “But enough about me, I need to maintain an air of mystery--you allergic to anything?”

Darcy snorts out a laugh. “I’m allergic to shellfish,” she says.

“No shrimp gumbo for you, then,” says Foster with a grin. “That’s fine, it means I won’t have to share.”

Darcy laughs again, looking out the windshield and up at the sky, lit in brilliant shades.

“I think I’m gonna like working with you, John Foster,” she says.

\--

( _Has not your dear doctor caused worse, where he hails from?_

Darcy’s not going to lie--it does bother her, that Anakin’s got twenty years of war crimes under his belt. It does bother her, that his body count is high enough to count somewhere near the thousands. It does bother her that he willingly fell to the Dark Side, that he served an evil despot for two decades, that he had _been_ evil himself.

That’s not something anyone can just wipe away, just like that. At least, not with some heavy delusion going on, and Darcy’s not really the delusional type, unless she hasn’t slept for two days because of final exams. She’s a political science major, and if asked she would point out that Darth Vader served what was essentially a fascist regime, and that’s _Very Bad_ , to say the least.

Not to mention the _war crimes_.

And, yeah, the march on the Temple.

Loki’s taunting smile still pops up in her worst nightmares, even once everything's finally settled. Sometimes his face melts away, and Anakin’s wearing that taunting smile instead, eyes a burning yellow, _most impressive, but you are no Jedi._

Well, no shit, subconscious Sherlock.

She walks inside the lab with a cup of Starbucks, and blinks.

There’s Anakin, carefully rewiring a Roomba, his glasses slipping down his nose. He’s barefoot, shoes lying on the floor, and he’s humming a tune that she recognizes as a showtune-- _boy, you got me helpless, look into your eyes and the sky’s the limit._

“Ooh, did you see Hamilton?” she says, and Anakin glances up, eyes a bright blue. “I’ve been trying to get tickets for that.”

“I wish,” he says. “Hey, Darce. Just set that down on the table over there.”

She sets it down, then hops up onto a chair next to him. From here, he looks the same as the guy who hired the only applicant who showed up for his internship, then promised not to feed her shrimp gumbo. A little older, maybe, but she’s spent enough time as his intern that she can identify his mood really easily.

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

“How’d you guess?” Darcy shoots back.

“You’re practically leaking feelings,” Anakin dryly says, going back to the Roomba. “Empath, remember?”

“So creepy you can do that,” says Darcy, and Anakin ducks his head, sheepish.

“I can’t really turn it off,” he says. “I mean, okay, I could, I did for years, but it _hurt_.” He goes right back to tinkering around with the Roomba, and says, “But enough about that, what’s got you so worked up?”

“Loki,” says Darcy, darkly.

“Oh,” says Anakin, brows creasing together. “Him. Did he say anything to you?”

“He was just being the asshole who wrecked New York,” says Darcy. “Again.”

“Yeah,” says Anakin, straightening back up, “but something he said got to you. Didn’t it?”

She sighs, throws her head back and gives a long groan. “Yeah, but that’s kinda what he _does_ ,” she says. “It’s nothing, Doc. Really.”

“You’re bothered,” says Anakin. “It’s not nothing. Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Nope,” says Darcy, looking up at the ceiling.

“Okay,” says Anakin. “Just--Darce, he’s a good liar, and an expert in manipulating people.”

“Obviously,” says Darcy.

“And sometimes,” he says, “the best lie, the best way to get someone to start doubting, is to just--tell them the truth. Or enough of the truth that they won’t question the lies.” He scoots his chair closer, one hand tucking his hair behind his ear. “Whatever he said, whether it’s true or not, you have one advantage over him--you know he’s trying to manipulate you. And you’re a smart girl, smarter than he is. You’re not going to fall for it. You never will.”

Darcy nods and straightens up. “You know,” she says, “you’re actually really good at these pep talks.”

“You’re one of my two interns,” says Anakin, dryly. “Pep talks and bribery are the only motivational tools I have that don’t involve murder.”

“And you were doing so well with the reassuring,” Darcy huffs, but she punches Anakin playfully in the shoulder, sees the grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes.

She thinks of shrimp gumbo, and smiles back.)

\--

The first time she meets Erik Selvig, she takes a week off from her internship to Foster to head back up to Ohio to attend her aunt’s second wedding. Boring as hell, overall, though her aunt’s wife is a pretty fun person to talk with.

Anyway--after a week, she flies back to New Mexico, with her aunt’s collection of World War II documentaries and her new aunt’s collection of cheesy musical comedies in her bag, with the goal of getting her boss to _take a goddamn break_ , for the love of god. She’s not too sure he actually sleeps, if she’s being completely honest.

When she steps into the building that Foster’s taken over for his lab, she nearly trips over one of his suitcases.

“Dude!” she yells. “I’m gone a week and you _still_ haven’t cleaned the place up yet?”

“Been busy!” Foster calls back, emerging from the den. He turns back and says, “Look, I appreciate you coming all the way down here to see me, really, but you don’t actually have to act like a mother hen--”

“I wouldn’t _act_ like a mother hen if you didn’t get into trouble all the time,” says an old man, stepping out of the den and giving Foster an impressively disapproving dad look. “Did you punch anyone? Tell me you haven’t punched anyone yet.” He glances to the side, eyes widening when he sees Darcy, and adds, “Who’s this?”

“Hi,” says Darcy, waving.

“Oh, hey, Darcy, how was the wedding?” says Foster, easily stepping over the box. “Darcy, this is Dr. Erik Selvig, he’s my mentor. Erik, this is Darcy Lewis, she’s my intern.”

“Good to meet you, Ms. Lewis,” says Selvig, nodding to her, before he looks back at Foster and says, “I’m actually on my way down to Brazil for a conference, but I stopped by here to check on you. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Foster.

“The wedding was boring but I got a whole bunch of movies out of it, my aunts had to get rid of some of their stuff to make more room,” says Darcy. “Also, nobody’s been punched! Nobody has been punched, right, Doc? I heard nothing about punching. Please don’t have punched anybody while I was away.”

“Nobody got punched,” Foster confirms. “It’s a sleepy little town where everyone knows everyone, Erik. There’s no trouble for me to get into.”

“Every time you say that, I get even more worried,” Selvig dryly says. “Need some help unpacking?”

“Please,” says Darcy. “There’s like a ton of stuff.”

\--

“So how’d you guys meet?” says Darcy, as she and Selvig carefully set up the equipment around the lab. There’s a chalkboard in place already, conveniently placed so it blocks out the sun in the morning, when Foster is least likely to be able to form words or coherent thoughts.

“He’d gotten lost on his way to his first class,” says Selvig, recalibrating a little device that gives off an occasional beeping noise. “Stood right outside the building, ten minutes late, like a lost puppy, so I ended up helping him out of pity.”

Darct snorts out a laugh. Yeah, she can imagine that, Foster standing outside a building with a sneaking feeling that he's gotten completely lost. It's happened to her before. “And then?”

“Next time I saw him, two months after that, he was knocking on my door asking about particle physics and changing his degree,” says Selvig. “At _one in the morning_.” He huffs out a breath, says, “He’s a persistent guy when he really wants something, but he’s a good kid.”

“Kinda noticed that, thanks,” says Darcy. “What was all that about punching?”

“He once got arrested for starting a bar fight after someone tried to hit on a friend of his,” says Selvig. “Like I said, he’s a good kid, but he’s got a temper on him. Worse after a migraine.”

Darcy thinks of the airport, of the way Foster had snapped at a guard for mishandling a coffeemaker. “I noticed that too,” she says.

“How did you two meet?” asks Selvig.

“I was the only applicant when he asked for interns,” says Darcy. “Like, literally, zero people in the room when I came in except for this guy drooling on his sleeve.”

“He’s not exactly the most established scientist, no,” says Selvig. “And much of his research is on the possibility of being able to somehow travel through space nearly instantaneously.” He shrugs, says, “You can imagine how the scientific community feels about that.”

“How do you feel about it?” Darcy asks, perching herself on a patch of table that doesn’t have any sensitive equipment on it yet.

“John’s bright,” says Selvig, after a moment’s pause, “and a lot of his theories are sound. The problem lies in getting the world at large to listen to him, and he can’t do that without hard proof.” He lets out a sigh, leans against the table, and says, “I worry that his search for hard proof is going to burn him out. Like I said, he’s persistent. As long as he gets results, whatever harm he does to himself doesn’t matter to him.”

Darcy glances at the coffeemaker, sitting pretty on the kitchen counter. She wonders, suddenly, if her boss ever _sleeps_. “I’m not gonna let that happen,” she says. “I kinda need the reference. And the credits.”

“Glad I can rely on you,” says Selvig.

\--

A week after that, she’s just come back from a grocery run, and John Foster’s out cold on the couch, snoring like a freight train.

“Jeez, Doc,” says Darcy, setting the plastic bags down in the kitchenette first before she comes over to sit down on the floor in front of him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep before. This is _surreal_.”

John makes a soft noise, turns over on the couch. “Hey, Snips,” he mumbles.

“Who’s Snips?” Darcy asks, but John’s snoring again, smiling peacefully. She’s never seen him like this, she realizes, vulnerable and peaceful and content. He’s always jumping at the next discovery, always chasing after storms and leads. He looks younger in his sleep, no older than maybe his early thirties.

Darcy sighs.

She digs out a blanket from under the couch, unfolds it and covers him up to his shoulders. He makes a soft, chuffing noise, mumbles something about an angel, and starts snoring again.

She glances at his laptop, left open on the lab’s main table. If she remembers right, One Direction’s album is floating around somewhere on the Internet, just waiting for her to download it.

“Sweet dreams, Doc,” she says, and hurries over to his laptop to plug her iPod in.


End file.
